


Abstruser Musings

by Shirokokuro



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred being a literary doyen per ush, Alfred: I'm sorry I think you said "my new grandson" wrong, But like one percent hurt ninety-nine percent comfort, Drabble, Everyone is tired, Fluff, Gen, Good Parent Alfred Pennyworth, Grandpa Alfred and the Precious Bean who lives next door, Hurt/Comfort, No Plot/Plotless, Sickfic, Slice of Life, Tim: hello I'm Tim, Tiny Tim - Freeform, heat exhaustion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24833572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: For certain, this is one of the better ways Alfred has spent an afternoon.*Title from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Frost at Midnight”
Relationships: Tim Drake & Alfred Pennyworth
Comments: 44
Kudos: 290





	Abstruser Musings

**Author's Note:**

> I started this four months ago and the other day felt like a good time to finish it. It's basically just a slice of life drabble, but I guess it's kinda a nice palette cleanser, at least from my usual deluge of Tim and Bruce angst, lol.

It’s a summer day. Blue skies, bright sun. The tree leaves susurrate like the wind is their breath, and if Alfred focuses enough, he can catch the smell of freshly-cut grass and sunshine through the open window.

The man’s been dusting in the upper library, feathers brushing over book spines that whisper of stories and escapes. Alfred’s busy enough that he isn’t tempted to slide one off the shelf, but he still treats each tome with precise care. It’s something to lose himself in.

He forgets how lonely it can be in the Manor some days, whiling away time until young Richard returns from Titan’s business or the Master from the JLA. Admittedly, it’s a strange life to lead. Alfred always thought his own skills were made for the stage—the field, even. He never would’ve guessed this would be how things would end up, himself caretaking a usually-empty house.

It’s not an unpleasant turn of events. Simple, but still...

Lonely.

The doorbell rings through the estate. Alfred stops, turning his head in faint surprise before setting the duster on an end table. _A reporter_ , he reasons with his mouth pulled to the side. They appear here often enough with eagle eyes and camera flashes. There’s one recruit in particular who’s been saddled with the unfortunate task of chivvying the Wayne residence until the Master agrees to an exclusive. Alfred thought he’d told him off the other day.

Sadly, it seems an encore is required.

Alfred already has a series of remarks concocted by the time he’s pattered down the stairs to the foyer. He adjusts the bottom of his vest (If there’s going to be a show, he might as well look the part.), and takes a peek through the spyhole—just to know who his audience is.

Surprisingly, nothing greets him. Just the empty drive.

Alfred waits another moment, faintly stunned though not particularly disappointed. As much as levying sass certainly adds interest to his day, he’d much rather spend his time in the kitchen or finishing his attack on the library’s bibliophilic fifth. The post should be delivered soon, as well. It’s nearly two.

Head filling with tasks, Alfred makes to resume his duties. He’s turned part-way from the entry when the doorbell rings again. The man’s attention flits back, curious if not cautious. No one’s there when he checks again.

He knows the Master’s moonlighting lends itself to unwelcome guests. It’s a thought Alfred encounters frequently, but if someone wanted the valet dead, he reasons they already would’ve done the deed. Although it is odd that someone would know the code to the front gate…

The man hums incredulously but still turns the knob and pulls the door back. He’s greeted by goldfinch chirps, leaf rustles, and—

_Oh._

Alfred gaze drifts down, eyes adjusting to the sun-caught glow of the face that greets him. His visitor is young, maybe five or six by the way his clothes are just too short on his sleeves and ankles, well-pressed khakis and jumper mismatching his wild hair. Despite those signs of growth, he’s still deceptively small. Alfred has no doubt that’s why he hadn’t spotted him.

“Hello,” the boy starts. “Are you Mr. Pennyworth?”

“That...would be me, yes. How may I be of service, young man?”

The boy smiles lopsidedly, likely at the title. “Tim’s fine. We’re neighbors, after all—” _Ah, the young Master Drake._ “—I just came by ‘cause I think we got your mail by mistake.” The boy holds out a stack of rubber-banded envelopes, a hefty load by the looks of it, and Alfred’s tabulating the distance between the Wayne and Drake estates. It’s a fairly large total for a small child to travel—especially with cargo. Now that Alfred looks closer, he can spy beads of sweat on the white of Timothy’s forehead, and he does seem rather pale.

“I see,” Alfred drones, accepting the letters. “I’m certain Master Wayne will appreciate the thoughtfulness, although it must have taken you ages to make your way here.”

“It’s alright,” the boy says; the thinness of his breath betrays him.

Alfred surveys him another moment before turning his eyes up to the July sun. Save the breeze, it’s boiling out. He’s surprised the child hasn’t been burnt to a crisp. “Perhaps you’d like to wait indoors while I fetch our post for you,” he offers seriously, stepping to the side in invitation. “I was planning to prepare afternoon tea shortly. You’re welcome to have some.”

The boy looks a bit cautious, scrutinizing the empty foyer before his eyes slide back to Alfred. He looks like he tries to swallow but doesn’t have the saliva to do it. “’kay,” he nods after a beat of hesitation, and he slips in out of the sun.

After the boy’s removed his trainers, Alfred herds him into the kitchen, making sure he’s clambered into one of the barstools before collecting a pitcher of water and a glass. His guest still looks a bit muzzy-headed, but the boy manages to thank him and begins sipping at the water—enough that Alfred feels all right leaving him alone for a moment or two. The man still flicks the ceiling fan on before exiting, and soon, he’s padding down the drive.

It’s not until Alfred’s reached the postbox that he fully appreciates the heat outside. It’s fine in the shade, but with the sun coming into the equation, it’s utterly brutal. Alfred can’t help but feel relieved when he finally retreats back inside and closes the door, the Drakes’ post in hand.

“Here you are, young sir,” Alfred says as he re-enters the kitchen. He settles the envelopes beside Timothy’s glass on the worktop and pours himself his own. Just one minute outside, and Alfred’s already parched. The water’s like heaven.

He still has no idea how Timothy managed to withstand those temperatures.

At the thought, Alfred tops both their glasses again and makes to return the pitcher to the fridge.

“Thanks,” Timothy says. Alfred can hear the shuffle of the boy’s trousers behind him as he moves to slide off the barstool. The older man’s just about to ask him to stay a while longer before—

“I shoul’proally go..."

And that’s Alfred’s big and only red flag to catch the boy before he collides with the floor.

“Easy now,” Alfred chides, managing to keep his voice calm purely because of one too many close calls with the Master and Richard. Timothy looks about as well off: His skin’s still clammy with sweat, and it’s as though he’s wondering how he got from the chair to Alfred’s arms.

Alfred is swift to remedy that by situating Timothy back on the stool. He keeps an arm around the boy’s back, just to ensure he doesn’t tip over again, and gives him back his glass.

“Drink,” he instructs. Timothy obeys dazedly, still blinking away the fainting spell, and Alfred keeps a slight hold on the glass purely because…well…he forgets, sometimes, how small children’s hands are, fingernails Lilliputian when juxtaposed with every other object in the kitchen. Alfred distantly wonders if they don’t have smaller cups around the Manor somewhere.

Timothy eventually pulls his face away, indicating he’s done.

“There we are,” Alfred soothes, removing the glass. “Better?”

Timothy hums drowsily.

At that, Alfred’s crow’s-feet crinkle, and he smooths sweat-soaked hair off the boy’s forehead. “All things considered,” he starts kindly, “I imagine it’d be best for you to rest here for the afternoon. I can walk you home later this evening once the temperature’s dipped.”

Timothy nods his head weakly.

Alfred has no idea if he registered the proposal or not, but Timothy doesn’t argue when Alfred picks him back up (better than letting him faint again) and makes his way to the nearby drawing room.

It’s one of the more casual areas of the Manor, Alfred’s personal favorite for its classic appeal. One of Monet’s haystack paintings hangs above a tufted settee; a matching ottoman crowns the top of a Persian rug; and the location of the room allows the canopy of the outside maple tree to shadow the floor. The very same tree shakes in the wind when they enter the room, and Timothy folds further into him away from the light, fingers curling into the fabric of his vest. Alfred gently readjusts his hold. The boy’s hair sticks to the underside of his jaw, and really, how many nights did Alfred carry Master Bruce in much the same way...?

Eventually, they reach the settee, and as reluctant as Alfred is, he sets the boy down. The spot is right in the path of the aircon. Should be good for him.

For good measure, Alfred fetches a damp hand towel and dabs around his face. Timothy is already fast asleep, Alfred taking care not to wake him, and once he’s done, the older man sits down on the sofa beside him, still keeping the cloth pressed against the inside of one of his wrists. He briefly scans the boy’s face for anything amiss. His skin has color to it now, his breathing still even, and his sleep seems restful. All good things.

Alfred continues to watch him, though. Part in worry. Part in nostalgia.

Truthfully, Alfred finds he’s forgotten the joy of children, the toothless smiles, the awkward tie of their laces, and the sweetness with which they doze. Timothy still has those qualities, and once again, he reminds him of the Master when he was younger.

Alfred’s chest lightens as he thinks of those simpler days.

Helping the boy with his maths in the kitchen. Seeing him off to school in the mornings. Rocking him in the nursery as a babe.

All until that one, endless moment after returning home from the GCPD, Bruce still smelling like back alleys and downtown and a grief so wide it could eclipse the earth.

Alfred will never forget that.

But sometimes, he feels he’s the only one who wants to remember the _before_ , the time preceding the deaths of dear Thomas and Martha, back when the Master still had light in his eyes and a general lust for life and adventure.

Now, the man’s only focused on that one night of tragedy. His childhood is deceased along with his parents, and for once, Alfred wishes they could share those memories, for fear of passing away himself as nothing more than a crypt of dead times.

It’s isolating.

More so than spending his days alone in the Manor.

Alfred sighs, telling himself there’s no point in brooding over things that won’t change. Instead, he softly pats a blanketed foot, Timothy stirring faintly at the touch, and gets up to prepare himself tea. It’s a mindless effort, something so common to his every day. He slices the ham and brie; he fills the kettle; and he bakes the scones while the water boils. The only change is an occasional visit to the drawing room, just to ensure Timothy's condition has continued to improve.

Thirty minutes later, Alfred’s finally returned to the drawing room for good, tray in hand and feeling more like himself. Any reminder of England does that to him, he’s found, that smallest tinge of buttery sweetness that graces the air and the clink of the dishes as he places the tray on the ottoman.

The valet’s decided to keep watch until his young friend awakens, so he’s also snatched an anthology from elsewhere in the house. He slowly relaxes into the sofa, old, tired muscles molding against the frame, and he removes his bookmark to dig in.

He’s three poems in when the person beside him rustles.

“…Mom?” Timothy grumbles, rubbing at his eyes. Alfred’s startled by the title, unsure how to reply. Thankfully, the boy seems to fill in the gaps easily enough once blue eyes settle on his company.

“Oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

“Indeed it is,” Alfred replies, setting the poetry aside and fixing a cuppa for the boy. “How are you feeling?”

“…Good.”

Alfred glances up and notices the fact that Timothy’s made himself small against the corner of the sofa. He chooses not to comment.

“I’m glad. This heat is nothing to be trifled with.” Alfred reaches for the sugar and milk. It’s not until he’s stirred it all together that he realizes he’s assumed Timothy would take his tea the same way the Master used to when he was young.

He flinches at himself.

“I’m sorry. Do you take your tea with two lumps?”

Timothy looks diffident but thoughtful. “I’m not sure. I’ve never had it before.”

Alfred’s trained himself not to balk at that. “Well then, this should be quite a treat,” he says, handing him the cup and pouring one for himself. “Let me know if you’d like me to make it differently.”

Timothy nods shyly before taking a sip.

He gasps. “It’s good! Thank you.”

Alfred smiles at that and settles back with his own tea in hand. “I do my best. It’s been quite a long time since I’ve had tea with a friend.”

The boy hides his face behind his cup at that. Alfred can still see the blush on his cheeks regardless.

Alfred just smiles again and shares a quiet moment with the child.

It’s a lazy afternoon, still. The window sheers are dancing in the draft from the aircon, framing the goldfinches that are flitting about on the birdbath outside, and brilliant black shines against yellow while they straighten their feathers. Their chirps are just barely audible as they call to each other.

“Ah!” Alfred starts suddenly, turning back to his friend. “I should have asked if you were expected at home. I would hate to make your family worry.”

Any previous positivity drains out of Timothy’s expression. “Oh, um…no,” he mumbles. “I don’t think Ms. Mac’ll mind. She’s at Mass all day today, and I like to go outside a lot. She’s used to it.”

Alfred perks an eyebrow. He doesn’t particularly like the sound of that, but… “If you’re certain she won’t worry…”

Timothy sets his tea down, the cup empty. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

Alfred hesitates still, thinking that he should inquire after a phone number at the very least, but Timothy seems certain—although notably fidgety.

“What are you reading?” the boy asks suddenly, gesturing to the book that’s beside the tea tray.

Alfred accepts the topic change with polish.

“The writings of one Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Renowned Romantic poet.” Alfred turns the anthology over in his hands. “Perhaps you’d like to read some with me?”

Alfred expects the boy’s nose to crinkle or—most likely in his case—politely decline, but to his surprise, Timothy agrees and moves over on the settee to sit beside him. He’s still stiff and withdrawn, clearly unsure how much contact is acceptable, so Alfred graciously decides to help and puts an arm around his shoulders, drawing the two within a comfortable distance of the book’s pages.

As time goes on, it quickly becomes apparent that Timothy is less interested in the poems and more in Alfred’s delivery of them—something the man is quite proud of. They share glances often while Alfred’s mid-line, an occasional smile. It’s as though the boy is trying to milk the contact for all its worth, eyes round and attentive, and it’s something Alfred most certainly notices. He wonders about his circumstances, what he likes, what he does, if he has friends, and how his family is.

And most troublingly, why he is allowed alone.

However, Alfred is adroit enough to not broach those topics yet—maybe in the future, if he can pay the Drakes a visit, but not now. Instead, Alfred only pauses long enough in his reading to hand Timothy another sandwich or ensure the temperature is comfortable for him.

The attention seems to have done wonders, because soon, Timothy’s gone boneless against him, lulled by the music of the words, the food, and the company.

The picture of peace, if Alfred does say so himself.

Not wanting to wake him, Alfred gently sets the book down and leans further back into the settee, admiring the tranquility of the boy beside him. _A fine way to spend the afternoon_ , he thinks, relaxing into the feeling of small lungs rising and falling against his own, and he watches sunlight retreat along the floor as time wanes.

* * *

Alfred considers himself gifted in many ways. He cooks, cleans, performs emergency surgery, and—to top it off—can quote any and all works of Shakespeare.

But among those plentiful talents, is one that is more annoyance than anything.

And that is the ability to instantly know when someone is dropping morsels over his freshly cleaned rugs.

At some point, Alfred must have dozed off along with his young friend, as he comes to with the refinement of someone who was simply resting their eyes. His physical senses come to him first, the pressure and warmth of another person beside him, still sleeping, but then his gaze scrolls forward to see Richard looking them both over. It seems he's only just returned from San Francisco.

“Tha’ the neighbor kid?” the teenager asks around a mouthful of scone.

Seven crumbs fall to the—previously immaculate—rug.

Alfred counts them.

“Yes,” the valet says, sparing a look at the boy in question. Timothy’s nuzzled even closer to him at some point, an arm wrapped around Alfred’s midsection while the other is nestled against the apple of his cheek. It makes him look even smaller.

“Cute kid,” Richard comments, gesturing to him with his scone, and more crumbs fall. He’s immune to Alfred’s deadpan. “He gonna stay for dinner?”

Alfred’s mind clicks into place at that because—he looks at the clock—it’s already past five. He hasn’t even started preparing the meal.

Alfred sighs again, muscles groaning from old age. “I imagine our guest might be hungry when he wakes, yes. Would you be so kind as to set a place for him at the table?”

Richard nods. “No problem,” he says, pausing to ruffle Timothy’s hair as he walks past. “Sure is a tiny thing.”

Alfred agrees. He thinks it might be a good idea to send him home with leftovers, although that would actually require making the food first. Mentally, Alfred’s calculating the cooking times and ingredients he needs, but physically, he thinks he could go back to sleep for another hour at least.

That’s when the arm around his midsection tightens, Timothy burying his face further into Alfred’s chest with a sleepy mumble.

And well, if that doesn’t settle things...

Alfred gingerly rests his hand on the boy’s head, allowing himself the simple pleasure of holding him, and closes his eyes again.

How he’s missed having children in this house.


End file.
